Tuesday, 21 February 2017

Weekend in Amsterdam Chapter Four

I
awoke the following morning to the sound of my travelling alarm clock. Eloise
was gone. I quickly bathed in the bathroom down the hall, wasting little
time in dressing as it was a freezing cold morning and the heating was still
not on.

When I entered the dining room, Oise was
serving Godfrey with his breakfast of two lightly boiled eggs in a double egg
cup. Cheese and ham slices were set out on a platter in two neat rows, and
there was plenty of bread and jam.

Her hair was once more controlled by the
black velvet ribbon, her apron was in place, and the all of buttons on her
blouse were securely fastened once more.

“Good morning sir,” she said rather formally.
“How would you like your eggs?”

“Boiled for four minutes please miss,” I
answered.

When my eggs arrived the whites were
runny, so I sent them back, explaining that I would like them cooked until the whites
were solid and only the yokes were runny. They re-appeared a few minutes later looking
exactly as before, and admitting defeat I ate them anyway.

After breakfast Godfrey went upstairs to
retrieve his briefcase. As there was only the old German lady in the restaurant
Oise and Icould talk freely.

“Why do you tease me?” she asked.

“You started it with the good morning
sir,” I replied.

“I mean last night.”

I had no idea what on earth she was
talking about. “I don’t understand, I haven’t teased you,” I protested.

“You kissed me like my father, with the
mouth closed,” she complained.

French kissing hadn’t really reached industrial
Lancashire, in fact I’d only once tried it and was accused of being disgusting.

“I’m sorry,” I apologised. “You’ll have to
teach me how to do it properly.”

Her face changed from a frown into a
broad smile, and she kissed me on the cheek just seconds before Godfrey
re-appeared looking businesslike with his leather briefcase.

*
* * *

At the Valkenswaard factory Dhr Weiner, met us in the reception area. Hewas short in stature, which ran contrary to many of
the other Dutchmen I’d seen since my arrival, who appeared to be tall, in
general, or at the very least as tall as me. He had the look of a Hollywood
heartthrob of years gone by, with swept back hair, which was black and wavy,
and a pencil thin moustache. He displayed a pleasant and welcoming manner, and escorted
us to his office for coffee, where he asked about our journey and the standard
of our hotel accommodation.

The hotel didn’t compare with the Rode
Leeuw in Amsterdam, but this was a small town and the hotel little more
than a family run guesthouse, but the food was good and the hotel, I’d
discovered, had fringe benefits.

Dhr Weiner went on to
offer an overview of the Valkenswaard factory.
Giving Godfrey the opportunity to comment on the factory in England, in which he
showed interest, as they compared notes.

After drinking the coffee, which I found
extremely bitter, we were given a guided tour of the factory. It was small, in
comparison to the Vallard factory in Blakewater, which employed four and a half
thousand people, while the Dutch plant employed a fraction of that number. We ended
our tour at a repair workshop, which housed control panels in various states of
repair or modification. A young man was hard at work. He was tall, with dark
hair, but without the dark complexion of our host.

“You
will be working with Dhr Peeters repairing the delay line machines,” he
told me. “We will meet for lunch, when we will dine at a restaurant in the market
square,” and with that he turned and left the workshop with Godfrey trailing in
his wake.

“Have you brought tools and an overall?”
asked Dhr Peeters.

I’d been expecting a conventional training
programme, or at the very least a watching brief, and I was taken aback.

“I wasn’t told I would need to,” I
protested lamely.

“I will find you an overall and you must
borrow my tools, please.” said Dhr Peeters obligingly.

Returning with a brown nylon smock, similar
to his own, but in approximately my size, he passed me a circuit diagram,
written in Dutch, and set me to work repairing one of the machine panels.

I was dumb struck; I hadn’t a clue how
the machine worked, or even what it did. Had I been able to oblige, there would
have been little point in my visiting the Dutch factory at all. I wondered if I
should complain to Dhr Weiner
at lunch time,but decided to speak with Godfrey instead.

Lunch was booked at a cafe next door to
the horse butcher. The menu of ham and cheese, salami sausage, and horse meat,
was to be the staple diet each day, although a different soup with crusty bread
began each meal.

Managing to isolate Godfrey from our
hosts I told him of my concerns. Godfrey turned a bright shade of red, as he
often did when faced with a problem he would rather not be required to solve,
or a person who he would rather not have to deal with.

“Don’t make waves,” he told me, “just
pick up what you can and we’ll sort things out when we get back to England.”

This didn’t make me feel any better, I’d
been hoping for a little more support, although I should have known better than
to expect support from Godfrey.

*
* * *

Godfrey met me in the repair workshop at
five o’clock; he’d had a good day, having spent it in Dhr Weiner’s
office discussing technical manuals and drinking coffee, two of his favourite
occupations. I hadn’t had a good day, and I wanted to discuss my work problems,
but Godfrey only wanted to talk about Oise.

“I think she likes me,” he said blushing
at his own revelation. “Last night we talked until midnight and we got on
really, well.”

I wondered if I should enlighten him as
to the facts of life, especially as Godfrey had really pissed me off, but on
reflection I decided against it.

When we arrived at the hotel, Oise was
in the bar serving the card players with drinks. We both greeted her, and
Godfrey blushed as we ascended the stairs to wash and change for dinner.

When I entered the bedroom I noticed
that something felt different. The clothes that I’d placed in the drawers appeared
to have been removed and re-folded. In the wardrobe my overcoat, jacket, and a
number of shirts, appeared to be in a different order on the clothes rail, and
my electric razor, toothpaste, and toothbrush, all appeared to be in different locations
on a shelf above the washbasin.

Someone must have been in my room to
make the bed, I reasoned, perhaps wipe down the washbasin and shelf, which might
account for the rearranging of my toiletries, but why would a maid remove, and
refold, all of my underwear and sweaters, or re-position my hanging clothes in
the wardrobe? I also remembered leaving my suitcase unzipped in the wardrobe, ready
to receive dirty washing destined for home, but it was unzipped no more. I was
convinced that someone had searched my room, but why, and what were they looking
for?

I asked Godfrey if he’d noticed any
differences in how he’d left his room that morning, and how he’d found it on
our return from work that evening, but apart from his bed having been made, Godfrey
hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

The evening was a repeat performance,
with Godfrey talking about radio signals, before repeating his conversations of
the day with Dhr Weiner. Oise and I snatched a few moments alone
when Godfrey left his seat to visit the toilet.

“Is he always such a boring man?” she
asked, breathing out heavily as if she’d been unable to breathe while in his
company.

“He thinks you fancy him,” I giggled.

“I don’t understand, what is fancy?” She
looked puzzled.

“He thinks you’re attracted to him.”

“I could never be attracted to Dhr Dale,” she said with a shudder. “He
is so boring, and not a very handsome man.”

“What type of man are you attracted to?”
I queried expectantly.

“You have a mirror in your bedroom,” she
said with a cheeky smile. “I suggest you look into it.”

As Godfrey reappeared I changed the
subject, and asked about the lack of heating in my bedroom.

“My father does not put on the heating until
winter arrives,” she informed me.

“How much winter does there need to be?”
I complained. “The ice is a foot thick and people are skating.”

“My father says that the winter begins in
December, but I could tell him that the English softies would like on the
heating.”

It was the 29th November, one more day
and two more nights and the heating would finally be on. I leant forward while
Godfrey was distracted and whispered into her ear. “I can wait for the heating to
come on if you promise to keep me warm in bed.”

When Godfrey continued the conversation
where he’d left off, I decided to have another early night. It was ten-thirty
and the card players were beginning to leave the hotel and head for home. The
old German lady, who usually came down to dinner, hadn’t put in an appearance,
and I figured that if I went to bed early Godfrey might be persuaded to do the
same. Oise would then be able close
the hotel and join me in my room.

I read for a while, waiting for her to
arrive, until I fell asleep, waking the following morning in a sitting position
with the book still in my hand. Oise hadn’t arrived, and I wondered what
I might have done to offend her. I remembered how annoyed she’d been about the
French kissing, or more accurately the lack of it, had I inadvertently annoyed her
again because I’d left her to cope with Godfrey alone?

She wasn’t at breakfast, and Godfrey hadn’t
seen her since going to bed the night before, so why hadn’t she visited my room?
Dhr Bos appeared to be the waiter, as well as the chief cook and bottle
washer at breakfast. I wanted to ask him what had happened to Oise, but I didn’t want to tip off the
old man as to our relationship. In any case conversations with Dhr Bos
were extremely difficult due to the language barrier, and usually ended in total
confusion.

I asked him if anyone, other than the
maid, had been in my bedroom, but although he pretended not to understand, his acute
embarrassment told me that he knew more than he was telling me.

I worked throughout the day, my thoughts
wandering back to Oise, and what I might have done to upset her. Dhr Peeters
was more helpful than on the previous day, when he’d appeared to be a
little under pressure, and spent more time talking to me. He told me that he
was married with two small children; both of them girls, but that they were
hoping for a boy next time. He rented his home, and he owned a little yellow
Daff car, which he insisted on showing to me at morning break. He proudly explained
that it was the world’s first belt driven car with continuously variable
transmission. I pretended to be impressed, but every time I looked at it I
couldn’t help visualising Noddy and Big Ears.

*
* * *

After lunch, Godfrey left to catch an
evening flight back to England. I was sure that I wouldn’t miss his company,
but surprisingly I felt alone once he’d left.

Oise wasn’t in the bar when I returned
to the hotel, and I asked her brother, who was on duty in her absence, where
she was.

“She will be down in half an hour to
cycle to her English class in Eindhoven,”
he answered.

I bought a small beer and waited until
she appeared.

“Why didn’t you come to my room last
night?” I asked.

“Did you miss me?”

“Is the Pope a Catholic?”

“Of course the Pope is a Catholic, why
are you talking about the Pope?”

“Forget about the Pope, what happened to
you last night?” I wanted to know.

“Frau Muller was taken ill, I sent
for the doctor and sat with her until morning.”

“I thought I’d done something to upset
you,” I said, the relief palpable, despite the fact that poor Frau Muller had
been taken ill.

“Not
this time,” she laughed, as she retrieved her bicycle from a multitude of other
bicycles parked in racks outside of the hotel.

“Does everyone in The Netherlands ride a
pushbike?” I asked.

“What is a pushbike?” She looked puzzled
by my adjective.

“Sorry, I mean a bicycle.”

“Why do you call it a pushbike?” she
asked.

I didn’t have a
clue, so I made up my own explanation.

“Where I live it’s so hilly, and hard to peddle, so people often
push their bicycles.”

I wasn’t trying to be funny, in fact I
was trying to give her the most rational explanation I could muster, but she
became hysterical with laughter and fell off her bicycle. She put her hands on my
shoulders to stop herself from falling, and as I put my arm around her waist to
steady her, our lips came together. I remembered to part my lips and felt her
tongue slip between them and explore the inside of my mouth.

“That is better,” she told me. “You
will, however, need some more practising.”

“Before you leave, who is it that makes my bed
and changes my linen at the hotel?” I asked.

“I do,” she told me.

“In that case did you tidy the clothes
in my drawers, and rearrange the hanging clothes in my wardrobe?”

“I have to make the beds, wash the
linen, serve breakfast, dinner, and lunch, and work behind the bar, why would
you think I have the time, or the inclination, to tidy up your drawers?”

“Could someone else have done it?”

“Only I and my father have a key to your
room, and he only cooks and plays cards, I can’t imagine him wanting to tidy
your clothes.”

She picked up her bicycle.

“I
will return at nine-thirty,” she called as she rode off towards Eindhoven, looking back just once to
give me a cheery wave.

After a solitary
evening meal I decided to explore the delights of the market square. I entered
the first bar and ordered a pilsner. The barman filled a glass with froth,
before placing it on the bar for my perusal. I waited for the froth to settle, expecting
the barman to fill it, but instead he wiped the froth from the top of the glass
with a wooden spatula and pushed it towards me.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“Good top ja?” replied the barman, looking pleased
with his creation and expecting me to feel the same way.

“To hell with
good top,” I said angrily. “I’ve paid for beer not froth, fill the bugger up.”

“Engels,”
announced the barman loudly. Everyone in the bar nodded and sighed knowingly,
as if that explained my peculiar behaviour.

In Amsterdam the
announcement of “Engels” wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow, but in this
small market town it caused quite a stir, and a ripple of conversation began
amongst the previously solitary and silent men.

One man, who sat
alone at the opposite end of the bar, moved closer to me and in very good
English asked me. “What part of England are you from?”

“Lancashire,” I answered,
as I didn’t expect him to have heard of Hartbrook, where I lived, or Blakewater
where I worked and played.

“Is that close to
London?” the man queried.

I decided it
would be far too complicated to explain that Lancashire was in fact a county
and not a town or city, so I picked the name of the closest big city to my
home. “No, it’s nearer to Manchester.”

“Ah, Manchester
United; Bobby Charlton; Georgie Best; Dennis Law,” and then the Dutchman ran
out of players whose names he could recall.

I felt obligated
to buy my new found friend a drink, so I pulled out a few coins, threw them
onto the bar counter, and ordered a Pilsner. Pretty soon I had six new best
friends all of them firing questions at me about England and Manchester United.
Even though their motives were blatantly mercenary, after two nights of discussing
radio signals with Godfrey, I was more than happy with the alternative company.

I left the bar
at ten o’clock and staggered back to the hotel a little worse for wear, I
thought I spotted the man who’d alighted from the Eindhoven bus, but I was so drunk that I could easily have been
mistaken. Oise was behind the bar and she eyed me sternly, as would a
mother chastising a naughty child. I remember ordering a Pilsner, but she gave me a black coffee instead.

“Drink that and go
to bed,” she ordered.

“Will you come
and tuck me in?” I asked while trying to wink at her but failing dismally.

She tried hard
to be annoyed, but found it difficult to conceal a smile.

“If you drink
your coffee and go straight up to bed,” she promised, “I will call to see if
you are asleep when I come up.”

“And what if I’m
awake?” I asked hopefully, but she didn’t reply.

* * * *

I'm sorry for any disappointment but my contract with Amazon won't allow me to publish more than 20% of my novel on any other site but their own, so this will have to be my last free chapter. If anyone wants to read the rest of the story then obviously it can be purchased, in e-book form, or paperback, from Amazon, but that is not the object of this exercise.

Publishing the first four chapters has been an experiment to answer questions I wanted answering.

When you publish with Amazon the book is hidden in the bowels of the company, and no-one ever sees it unless they ask for it specifically. This is not a good system for unknown authors, who sell on average 50 copies, mainly to friends and family, so I'm considering using an agent and a traditional publisher, if I can find one, to raise my profile and boost my sales. Agents, I've discovered, want to read the first 50 pages of a novel before making a decision, but would my first 50 pages be engaging enough? One reviewer has already stated that my novel is a slow burner, so would this be detrimental in getting my novel noticed?

By the Book Reviews(Canada)

This is Higgins’ first novel. According to the book’s cover he
is a retired electrical engineer, which only makes me wish that he’d been lousy
at that job so he could have turned to writing earlier. He has a deftness of
observation, an ear for natural dialogue, and enough narrative bravery that
it’s fair to say he would have carved out a solid career as a novelist with
hearty sales and a couple of fat film rights cheques stuffing his bank account.
Nonetheless, Weekend in Amsterdam has been worth the wait. It’s a damn
good novel.

Book Republik (Cairo)

I was
sceptical at first. The opening pages of the book make it a slow burner. It is
foolish to give up on a book so easily and a couple of chapters in I was well
rewarded. The novel suddenly turns into a page-turner and the calm starting
pace is forgotten. A spy tale with a difference ensues. None of the James Bond
stuff here, just down to earth human nature. Roy A Higgins, great job and looking
forward to more from you.Question 1. If my book was on the shelf for all to see, would anyone idly pick it up and begin to read it? Most people judge a book by its cover, so would the cover attract readers to look inside?

Answer. The take up rate to read Chapter One has been 134 people to date, out of 4,800 followers on twitter, only 2.8%, but that had nothing to do with the quality of writing because the other 97.2% didn't even read it. I tried posts with, and without the cover picture, but that didn't appear to influence the take up rate, in fact I got less of a take up with the picture, possibly because it looked more like a book advert and was skipped over.Question 2. What percentage of readers would want to read Chapter Two after reading chapter One? This would give me an indication of how engaging Chapter one was.Answer. So far 120 people from 134 went on to read chapter two, that is 90% of the original readers. That's encouraging, as I was hoping for, but not expecting 50% of readers to want to continue reading the story. This tells me that what I have written is readable, 10% didn't want to read more but you can't please everyone.Question 3. Would readers want to continue reading, knowing that they may never find out what happens in the story without buying it? Answer To date 100 people have stuck with the story through three chapters, but chapter three has not been available for very long, and I expect that number to rise. It's expected that for whatever reason people will fall by the wayside, but the results of my experiment have been positive.

If I tell you that my book is good and you should read it, the take up would be very small, because you don't know me and you don't trust me, I'm just the guy who's trying to sell you something. If your best friend enthuses about the book you are more likely to take notice and read it, as you trust your friend and value their opinion.Question 4. How many people would take the trouble to tell others that my story is worth reading,?because without an axe to grind these people are more likely to be believed. When I read a novel, especially by an indie author, I always leave a review on Goodreads and Amazon, authors need encouragement, and readers need to know which books are worth buying.Answer. 100 people are still reading my story, so I must assume that they liked it enough to read all three chapters, but only 6 of them bothered to tell their followers by re-tweeting, and only six, perhaps the same 6 clicked the love button, that equates to a disappointing 6%. Is that because they didn't like it enough to recommend it? Did they not realise that authors need help to get their message across to a wary audience, or where they just too lazy to be bothered? This question remains unanswered.